


The horror of our love

by squorsh



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Angst, Gen, again. its kiyo and his sister. this is expected, emotional abuse tw, hes happy at the end. he deserves happiness. i will give him this happiness., i mean thats to be expected it's korekiyo we're talking about here, incest tw, kiyo kicks his sister's ass!!!!!, korekiyo redemption, nothing explicit or anything though. they just have a.... chat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-10-19 07:09:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17596736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squorsh/pseuds/squorsh
Summary: Korekiyo's sister refuses to speak to him and he comes to a realization.Set in an AU where Kiyo killed Tenko, but someone else killed Angie, so he survived the trial.





	The horror of our love

She wasn’t talking.

The only sound in the ancient room save for the man’s own wavering breaths, shallow and ragged, was that of his index fingers scratching at the collar of his shirt. They moved to his chest, his belt, the opposite arm, his wrist. Bandanged fingernails scratched against every surface they could find in a desperate attempt to redirect the nervous energy welling up inside of him faster than he could quell it, eyes darting around the interior.

His back pressed against a wall, next to a tapestry accented in gold embroidery against red fabric. Head listing upward and at a crooked angle, he switched hands, left hand tapping its fingers against the side of his cheek at a rapid, measured pace. Sweat was beading on his brow, trickling down the side of his head and onto a covered finger, a shaking breath escaping him.

“Sister,” he croaked, voice raspy and helpless, tears involuntarily welling in his eyes as the taps to his cheek turned to scratches. “Sister, please; why won’t you speak to me…”

The only time she refused to speak to him was when he had done something wrong. But what had he done? He had been on his best behavior all day. He had even hand-washed his uniform before breakfast, making sure to practice his studies while it dried in his room. Breakfast was spent alone so they could have quality time had she chosen to speak, but she was as silent as the friends sitting as far away from him as possible at the table.

She had been quiet since the trial, and that had been days ago. Her silence was expected, but after so long, he was beginning to panic. Korekiyo’s breaths quickened when she didn’t answer, finding himself falling down against the wall until his rear hit the floor, knees moving back up to his chest. He felt small, alone, and lost. For so long, she had been there to guide him. What had he done wrong? Had he raised his voice at someone? Forgotten an aspect of his daily ritual? Taken a note incorrectly?

The tears and fast breaths gave way to hiccups, both hands shakily crawling up the sides of his face to hold it just as his head dipped forward and his shoulders heaved with a sudden loud, watery wail. He had not felt so distraught since the first time he provided Sister with a friend, blood on his hands and his vision blurred from tears of shock. Even so, she had been there to comfort him, to assure him that he had done the right thing, and instructed him on how to clean up the mess he made. She had always been so thoughtful, so kind, so considerate of his feelings…

… So why wasn’t she now?

“Please,” he gasped, not even noticing as his hat slipped off his head and fell soundlessly to the floor, fingers tangling in his long navy locks and tugging at them helplessly. “I’m s-so alone, Sister… please…”

The voice that greeted him was not that of his sister, but of a male voice outside the room, yelling, “Kiyo!” just as the door was thrown open, startling the man. Standing in the doorway was the ultimate detective, eyes wide and a hand on the doorframe, surely expecting a murder in progress to rest before him. But no, it was only a crying, helpless Korekiyo, shame flooding over the anthropologist like a tidal wave.

Shuichi’s brow knit in concern down at the man, whom flinched at his judgmental stare. His voice was kind, but cautious as he took a step forward, “Kiyo… are you alright?”

Any response fell apart as soon as it hit his tongue, Shuichi cautiously kneeling down before the man and holding up a hand, as if to signal he wasn’t going to hurt him. “Hey, calm down… you’re having a panic attack; take a deep breath.”

Korekiyo’s eyes narrowed over at him, distrusting, but the detective’s expression of concern was genuine. Even if Sister spoke to him, he could not respond properly to her, he decided, and took in a long, deep breath, holding it before exhaling.

“That’s it; just keep doing that until you’re calm enough to talk,” Shuichi said calmly, his hand lowering down onto his bent knee. It was surely helping, to Korekiyo’s surprise, eventually feeling like he wasn’t going to choke on his own gasps for air anymore. “Now,” the young man spoke, “what happened?”

His gaze dipped. It looked down at the intricacies of his uniform and at the smooth olive fabric once handled by his one and only, the thought of her making fresh tears bud in his eyes. What had he done wrong? What had he done to upset her to the point of not speaking to him, even in a state such as this?

Another breath, slow and measured, exhaling carefully. “Sister,” he croaked, voice ragged and quiet, “won’t talk to me…”

Shuichi’s brow creased. Of course it would. Nobody understood what he meant. Nobody _ever_ understood what he meant. To his surprise, though, the teen only asked, “Why… won’t she talk to you?”

“I don’t know,” he replied, his fidgeting hands having since ceased. His arms had slunk around his knees, pulling them up closer until they were up against his chest. “She’s always – “ He took a breath, “ – talked to me when I’m upset… but ever since the trial, she…” Swallowing hard, he hesitated continuing, as if saying it out loud would just confirm the truth even more. “She hasn’t spoken to me…”

A beat of silence passed over them. Shuichi obviously didn’t know what to do, and Korekiyo was growing more and more uncomfortable by the moment. He just wanted to be alone; maybe if he did a good deed, like tidying up the lab, or making a pot of tea for his classmates, she would acknowledge his efforts and say something…

“Kiyo?” Shuichi suddenly spoke, the man’s head turning to glance at him out of the corner of his eye. “I know we’ve talked about your sister before, but… I’d like to know more about her.” He adjusted his seating, now sitting cross-legged on the floor with his hands on his lap. “She’s always guided you, hasn’t she?”

Korekiyo didn’t respond right away. Folding his hands over his shins, he allowed himself to relax a bit, taking in another breath before letting it out. “Yes… my entire life, she was there for me, and she still is. When I was lost, or unknowing in what to do… she would guide me and help me on my path. Sometimes she helped me on paths I had not even seen… such as my love for anthropology.” A somber smile crossed his lips behind the mask over his mouth at the memories that came to him, head resting on his left shoulder. “Were it not for her, I never would have discovered such a fascinating world of study…”

Shuichi only nodded, a hand on his chin, as if pondering something. Finally, he asked, “Korekiyo, can you do something for me? I need you to answer a question of mine.”

His eyes turned cautious, glancing over at the teen with slightly knitted brows. Shuichi, however, didn’t bother to wait for an answer. “I need you to answer this question: who are you?”

“What sort of question is that?” Korekiyo asked, incredulous. “I’m Korekiyo Shinguji, ultimate anthropologist. You know this; everyone here does.”

Shuichi didn’t reply at first. With a soft grunt, he moved to get to his feet, looking down at the man and simply replying, “Just think on it for me. Okay?” With that, the conversation apparently over, he stepped out of the room and closed the door behind him just as Korekiyo opened his mouth to ask what that meant, leaving him in silence once again.

Who was he? What sort of question was that? Truly Mr. Saihara was acting too philosophical for his own good – and Korekiyo had assumed he had learned just about everything about him from his observations. Obviously, he had been wrong.

… Sitting on the floor crying himself silly would do nothing for him. Leaning down, he picked up his hat and shakily moved to get to his feet, leaning against the wall for purchase. The brim of his hat was held between his bandaged fingers, and yet, he didn’t quite feel like putting it back on. Even so, he felt a twinge of guilt at the thought, forcing himself to place it back atop his head. Sister made him this hat; to not wear it would be an offense against the hard, painstaking work she went through for his sake.

His feet moved of his own accord, hand lowering down to brush its fingers over a display case to the right of the room, small particles of dust lifting into the air as they slid over its wooden frame. Just as they reached the corner, he froze in place.

Hand lifting, he stared down at it in disbelief. He… had calmed down without her help. Every time without fail, she had come to his aid to assist him when he was distraught, but… this time it was due to someone else. Not because of his love, but because of someone who he called friend.

And somehow, he felt guilty.

Nobody should have to help him. He shouldn’t help himself. He always relied on Sister – he heeded her guidance and assistance, her kind words and helpful advice… To refuse to wait for her to help him and take care of it himself… was that not disrespecting her? And if that was the case, why did he not feel worse about such a horrible action?

Why did he feel bad about not feeling bad? Was it so bad to help oneself instead of wait on someone who would not speak to him unless they feel like it?

Panic was coming fast, and it was coming hard. An apology danced on the tip of his tongue, but it never came, a hand flying to his chest as his heartbeat increased. Steps became wobbly, his vision blurred by oncoming tears. Sister always helped him. Sister always guided him when he was frightened. If he could help himself, if others could help him, why could she not do so? _Why_ wouldn’t she? Who was she to refuse to assist? What had he done?

_Who was he?_

A strangled gasp escaped him, free hand fumbling for something to hold onto to maintain his balance. His fingers ran over the circumference of a nearby pole next to one of the many display shelves inside, arm wrapping around it as his body lurched, both arms curving around it like a lifeline. Tears were budding in his eyes again, spilling down his cheeks as his breaths quickened. The mask over his mouth curved inward around his lips with every hard, fast breath, the taste of fabric falling over his tongue.

He was Sister’s and Sister’s alone. He needed to rely on her for everything, for every whim and need he may require. If he didn’t need her for something, then what was the point? She had always been there, always held his hand, be it literally or, later on in life, metaphorically, to give him strength to go on. That kind look in her eyes, the gentle lull to her voice that helped him fall back to sleep when he had a nightmare… did he not need that? Why didn’t he?

Sister was wise. She knew what she was saying when she told him things. _You musn’t cry. You musn’t raise your voice. You must stand up straight. You must listen to me. You must apologize when you have done wrong. Apologize. Apologize. Apologize apologize apologize apologize –_

A helpless yell escaped him, clinging to the pole with every bit of strength his shaking body held as his eyes clenched shut. He _had_ cried. He _had_ raised his voice. His posture had been hunched and sluggish, and he had yet to apologize for his misdeeds. But hadn’t the aforementioned misdeeds helped him? His yell had alerted Shuichi, and his cries had given way a clearer mind, even if it had been short lived. All of those things had helped him relax and calm down, but holding it in and blindly obeying Sister had never –

Korekiyo’s head ached at the thought, a helpless whimper rising in his throat as his eyes opened, stinging with tears. Feet moving of their own accord, he shuffled over to the door and opened it, leaving his lab and walking through the olden halls of the fourth floor. Hand finding a stairwell banister for purchase, he began to descend. He wanted to go to his dorm and sleep and not think about any of it…

The silence and the need to focus on his descent down the stairs only gave the man more time to think. He should have felt guilty, traitorous, and vile. He should have apologized by then for even thinking such thoughts. As he turned the stairway corner to head down to the second floor, he wondered why he didn’t feel any of these things, or why he didn’t _want_ to apologize. As his feet hit the first floor, a bizarre question arose in his mind.

Why did he feel like he could breathe for the first time in years?

The air felt crisper, clearer. Engaging in such an act of rebellion… it helped his head clear the more he thought of it. He could take care of himself. Perhaps not entirely, but… every step forward was one in the right direction. Didn’t Akamatsu say something along those lines to the group once? Perhaps she did, perhaps she didn’t. But holding onto the thought that she did – that it wasn’t just a silly thought conjured up by a delusion… it kept him moving forward.

Things felt clear and blurred all at once, Korekiyo moving not towards the dorms, but to his immediate left into the school warehouse, the doors echoing in the vast expanse of the room before him. Maybe this was a dream. If so, Sister would surely scold him for such thoughts invading his subconscious when he awoke.

He found what he was looking for quickly: a standard boy’s school uniform in his size and scissors. Robotically, he stepped out of the room, the clothes neatly folded as he carried them on both arms, scissors resting neatly atop of them.

Something white was seen in the distance, followed by a childish snicker that grew closer with every step forward. “Whatcha doin’ there, Korekiyo?” Ouma spoke from further ahead in the hall. “You’re not preparing another murder, are you? Only an idiot would do that, and so soon after the trial! Everyone here’s too scared to be within a fucking mile of you; you couldn’t even find a victim!” A gasp escaped him, feigning fear as he pressed against the wall, “U-unless you’re going to kill m – “

“Excuse me,” was all Korekiyo said as he walked past, movements stiff and robotic as he stepped down the hall, sprouts of grass between the stone under his feet crunching with each step. Ouma said something behind him, but Korekiyo had tuned him out.

The men’s room was his destination, nudging open the door with his shoulder and stepping inside. After setting his supplies on the counter, he quickly checked to make sure nobody was inside, then stepped over to the broom closet and pulled open the door. A mop was the first thing he saw, so he took it, stepping over to the door and sliding the length of it through the door’s handle, ensuring it would stay closed to those outside.

It was quiet. The man’s breathing was surprisingly even, his footsteps silent as he made his way to the counter. Heartbeat in his ears, he raised a hand and took off his hat, holding it in both as he stared down at it. Keeping his hold steady and fighting the urge to start shaking again, he placed it on the counter and looked up at his reflection.

His eyes were red and puffy, cheeks stained from tears and bags prominent under his eyes. They were due to the lack of sleep as well as the ordeals he had been through over the past hour, bits of his face red from where he had scratched at his cheeks. A bandaged hand raised up, the back of his knuckles running over the skin and studying it in the reflection before him.

Who was he looking at?

Korekiyo Shinguji: a name he knew at heart. And yet, for the first time in his life, he wondered if the man before him really was who he said he was. He wore his sister’s clothes, wore his hair in the same style, did his makeup every morning to mimic hers. His lips, painted beneath the mask, were covered for her protection. _Her_ protection, not his.

This hair was hers. This outfit was hers. This body had been hers since the séance that went wrong. Korekiyo had complied and done everything she asked of him and expected of him. Somehow, he felt that such actions caused him to wither away.

The man’s gaze met his reflection’s once more, expression blank. Perhaps he didn’t know who looked at him in the mirror. But it was not his sister.

His hand fell down from his face, line of sight moving down to the white-handled scissors resting atop of the school uniform on the counter, fingers wrapping around it.

“What are you doing?”

Her voice was like a freight train hitting him square in the chest, a gasp escaping him as he quickly realized that it was not muffled. His free hand had pulled down his mask, eyes wild as they darted up to his reflection. To her reflection.

Sister’s gaze was empty, ruby red lips glimmering in the reflection of the overhead light. “Korekiyo dearest, please answer me.”

Korekiyo’s voice had cracked from the involuntary falsetto, the finger holding his mask down trembling as the rest of his hand wrapped around it tightly, tugging at it unbeknownst to him. Were this any other day – were this an hour ago, really – he would have apologized. He would have fallen to his knees and begged for forgiveness. And if not that, he would have asked why. Why hadn’t she spoken to him in so long, or why she had ignored his pleas. Instead, the only words that left him were,

“Who am I?”

While his reflection’s expression shifted back to that of his sister’s, she had not responded, eyes empty and cold. A flinch instinctively moved through his body, forcing himself to keep his fingers curled around the scissors. The silence was deafening, and the heartbeat in his ears was growing louder with every passing second that she did not respond.

At last, she spoke, a smile crossing her features, eyes crinkling at the corners. “My dearest Korekiyo,” she replied calmly, the kind tone causing confusion, fear, and comfort to meld into an unsatisfactory emotion that rushed over the man, “you are my one and only. My sun, my moon, and my stars… that is who you are.”

It was what she used to say when he was young and solemn, crying into her chest over some minor thing while she gently shushed him and rubbed his back. Even when she was sickly and ill, scarcely having the strength to sit up in bed, she would say such soothing words to comfort him. His heartbeat evened, but then a rush of rebellion swelled in his gut, pushing him back into reality and causing it to beat harder in his ears.

“Who I am,” he said carefully, trying to find the right words, “should not be reliant on who I am to you. Sister,” he asked again, gripping the scissors tightly as his arm fell to his side, “please tell me… who am I?”

She seemed confused, head tilting to study him as a hand raised, his mask tucked beneath his chin. “You are mine, Korekiyo… mine and nobody else’s. We have always had each other through hardship and victory, through sickness and health. ‘Til death do us part, as they say, and even that could not separate us.” The hand found the wrist upon the opposite arm, taking it and lifting it, its hold gentle as its thumb rubbed over Korekiyo’s bandaged knuckles. “Why would you ever need anything beyond that? We told ourselves years ago that each other was all we needed.”

Korekiyo stared down at his hands, the thumb stalling, and he wrenched the one holding the scissors away silently. “Maybe I need something more now, Sister… maybe I need myself.”

Silence. The free hand moved up to his face, caressing his cheek, holding it tenderly as if to try to comfort him. “Korekiyo, you’re being silly. Is this because of that silly little boy? You always were a bit of a pushover, hm?” Even if her words were harsh, an airy laugh passed her red lips. “But it just adds to how precious you are…”

When Korekiyo’s face flinched away from her touch, he hadn’t even realized it. It hadn’t registered until her voice took on a tone that made him stiffen, feeling like a scolded child. “What are you doing?”

“Sister,” the man spoke, voice wavering as he took control of his hand and raised it of his own accord, staring directly at his reflection with slightly knitted brows, “Perhaps… it is time for you to rest in peace. You would not be happy if you lived within me anymore – “

“What on earth are you talking about?!” she spat, making him start and nearly drop the scissors in his hand, a shaking, frightened gasp escaping him. “Are you having another one of your fits? You’re speaking nonsense. Apologize and even your tone of voice right now.”

For a split second, he considered it, but something propelled him forward, and with a scowl, swallowing down his fear, he raised his hand and wiped it across his mouth. The lipstick he had meticulously applied so carefully that morning rubbed off onto the pristine, clean uniform he had taken so much care to clean, and even when a gasp escaped him from his sister, he finished his movement, lowering his arm. A bright red stain rested on the olive fabric, remnants of it on his lips when he met his reflection’s gaze.

His sister was confused. His hands were moving of their own accord. With a free hand, Korekiyo took hold of his hair and balled it in a fist, pulling it taut and holding up the hand with the scissors. A whimper stalled his hand, wild eyes moving back to his reflection. Tears were budded in his eyes, his view of his sister growing blurred from watery vision. She seemed hurt. Sad. Scared.

“Kiyo,” she murmured helplessly, and his heart skipped a beat. “Why would you do this? Please…”

For every word she spoke that dripped with melancholic earnest, there was something else to them that kept him going, the scissors growing closer to his hair – the hair he had grown out for so many years as a memento of her.

“Kiyo,” she spoke again, louder this time.

The blades brushed against navy.

“Korekiyo!”

He pushed down on the handles.

“Korekiyo, you _bastard!_ ”

His hands shook, individual strands falling to the floor, the man shaking and wincing as if it hurt.

“Stop this right now and apologize!”

It stung, like someone slowly, agonizingly pulling a bandage off of skin, his hands too shaky and apprehensive to just rip it off.

“ _Apologize!”_

Rip it off.

“ _APOLOGIZE!”_

He slammed down on the handle, a pained, guttural scream escaping him as he fell to his knees, the scissors flying across the tile floor of the bathroom. Panic welled in Korekiyo’s chest, free hand gripping his cut off locks so tightly his hand shook. With a fearful yelp, as if it would harm him, he tossed it to the floor, scooting back across the bathroom until his back hit the wall and caused him to gasp.

Overgrown grass brushed against his cheek, making him flinch. His hand raised upward and fumbled for his mask, ripping it off and causing the strings to snap against his ears in the process, throwing it across the room as well.

He felt filthy. Trapped. Clothes. His clothes still had his sister in them. With a strangled noise, he unbuttoned his shirt, fumbling twice before throwing caution to the wind and gripping the hem of its collar, ripping it down the middle with trembling, aching hands that pulled it off of his shoulders with such intensity that he nearly popped his shoulder.

Kicking off his boots, he yanked his pants down and nudged them across the room, hugging his knees to his chest and staring at the articles on the floor in disbelief and fear, as if they would all harm him. The chain previously attached to his uniform’s suit shone in the overhead light of the bathroom, his deep blue hair scattered over the floor, and his mask was hanging off of a stray stem next to the sink wall.

His neck felt cool without hair to cover it, his hand raising and running its fingers over the exposed skin. Again… he felt like he could breathe, but continuously this time. The air felt crisper, his lungs clear amidst his ragged breaths. Feeling as if he had ran a mile, he stared up at the bathroom ceiling and let out a long, shaking sigh.

Korekiyo wasn’t sure how long he had laid there. Eventually, however, he decided to get to his feet. Swallowing down his fears, his gaze flicked upward to his reflection, and for the first time in ages, he didn’t see his sister.

His hair was short and fell halfway past his ears, mouth free of lipstick and his makeup smeared from tears and sweat. Taking a paper towel from the sink’s countertop, he ran it over his face, wetting it and repeating the process until it was gone from his eyes. Gaze dipping down, he moved it over his bare-chested body, thin with ribs showing through the skin, collar jutted out.

Breathing heavy still, his hands moved over the cotton surface of the uniform just as something pushed against the door.  A voice called out his name, followed by a second saying, “Was that Kiyo?” but the man found he didn’t care. Silently, as the door rattled, he pulled on the black shirt and buttoned it up with the steadiest hands he could manage, then the trousers. With one more look at his reflection, he ran a hand over his hair and rustled it – something he never would have dare done in the presence of his sister – and allowed himself a small, gentle laugh at how silly it was… and how wonderfully freeing it felt.

Finally, he took the shoes he had brought along with the uniform and tugged them on, kicking the heels to make sure they fit. The yells at the door were getting louder and more frantic, and he figured it was time to leave.

Stepping over to the door, evading the articles of clothing and hair upon the floor, he slid the broom out from the handle. As soon as he did, it slammed open, a familiar mop of blonde hair nearly tripping in the process. “Hey, I did it!”

Miu looked at the mess before her on the ground, then up to Korekiyo, letting out a noise of surprise and confusion, a brow raising. “What the fuck happened to you?”

Ignoring her question, he listed his head to find nearly everyone outside the bathroom – even Himiko, who seemed equally surprised at his sudden change of appearance. Shuichi pushed through the crowd a bit, blinking up at him with confusion. “Kiyo?”

The man steadied his stance, turning to face the group and causing them all to start when he held his arms at his sides and bowed deeply at them.

“My name is Korekiyo Shinguji,” he said, the words familiar and foreign on his tongue all at once. “I hope… that we can all get along here.”


End file.
